Ann Marshall grew up in Atlanta, Georgia. She graduated from School of Visual Arts in New York City. She has worked in a gallery, illustrated children's books and traveled nationally and internationally as an ethnographer and consumer anthropologist. She now works as a portrait and fine artist.
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The first impression of Ann Marshall's art is one of startling beauty. Her work is not cheaply sentimental, splashy, nor particularly visceral. You may not notice it in a populated room for some time--and it it would probably be lost in the sea of oversized canvases and booming video installations that characterize most contemporary exhibits. In fact, it's probably best viewed in a private space, in the solitude of a small and quiet room like the one in which it was created. Marshall's art whispers rather than shouts, which is somewhat like the artist herself, easygoing and relaxed, if a little reserved. Like her subjects, there's an elusiveness behind her immediate demeanor. Taller than most, with a mass of curly brown hair, oversized earrings, and an I-got -lost-on-the-way-to-the-Renaissance-Fair sort of look, she stands out in a crowd. But her easy smile reveals an approachable warmth rather than pretension. She admits people who meet her are often surprised when they finally find out what she does, and usually tell her she seems too normal to be an artist ("I never know quite what to make of that comment," she admits).
Marshall grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, in a suburban strip mall world where the only art she was exposed to was in the form of Disney films, children’s books, or “those prints they sell at Pier 1 to match the couch.” She attended School of Visual Arts in New York City to become an illustrator, a decision that seemed like a responsible compromise at the time because “it sounded like a way to make a living while doing art.” But the reality of the field was different than she’d expected, and Marshall found herself working seven days a week for what, when she did the math, turned out to be less than two dollars an hour. “You can’t live in New York City on that,” she says dryly. “I remember thinking I would make more money as a farm laborer in Florida... The field is surprisingly difficult, though from the outside it looks like this fun way to make a living. I have many ex-children’s-book-illustrator friends.” Marshall decided if life as an artist was going to be so difficult, she might as well be doing work she really liked, so she got a part-time job in marketing and spent two years developing a body of work before going out in search of a gallery. “I was trained academically, and it took a long time to develop something unique out of that—something that was more than a study of light. There are enough of those sorts of painters out there already. Besides, doing purely that kind of work always made me feel like a machine, or a trick pony.”
Marshall’s work is stylistically individualistic and hard to categorize, though you can see echoes of 19th-century portraiture, the Fin de Sičcle, and even contemporary fashion photography. Surprisingly, Marshall cites Murakami’s Little Boy exhibit at New York’s Japan Society as a recent influence. “I wouldn’t say my work became more Pop-Japanese after that—it’s obviously not—but something drastic shifted after seeing that exhibit. Their work seems far more vibrant than the current, very self-conscious art coming out of the States. There’s something very alive about it.” Her trademark collage developed as a solution to two rather prosaic problems: poor studio lighting and deadlines. “I was trained academically, but found I had to adjust my style because I didn’t have an aristocracy around to fund my spending three months on a single work, or a studio with north lighting, which is necessary if you want to do naturalistic panting without color distortions.” Interestingly, Marshall was introduced to collage by Kara Walker’s father, Larry Walker, at a summer drawing class in Georgia after her freshman year of college. “I didn’t really do anything with it at the time, but apparently it germinated for six years. My early attempts with it were very awkward, but eventually I was able to incorporate the technique. It allows me to not have to render every single inch on canvas.”
Her subjects live in a world of interior realities, independent of the material world. Marshall's technique ascribes to no period, but weaves together qualities from modern and traditional western art. Her tolerance for different and sometimes competing aesthetics comes from two sources: books and her Catholic education. “Books because, when you read, you are exposed to multiple cultures and time periods. I think this is one of the dangers of not reading--you limit yourself for the most part to American culture from, say, 1950 on. You are shutting yourself off from an almost limitless range of knowledge. Secondly, my Catholicism-- you have 2000 years of knowledge and tradition behind you. I grew up with an alternative to a purely materialist world view and a respect for earlier modes of thought. In science, knowledge is cumulative and advances forward-- usually. The other things, I'm not so sure....we're not much brighter than we were a thousand ago. We don't change that much. Evolution doesn't work that fast.”
Perhaps this is how Marshall so adroitly renders what is invisible: her understanding of the fixed qualities of human nature. Or maybe it's just an innate talent. In any case, it's unique in a time when pop, glib, cynical, or puerile imagery are the reigning norm. She also seems to actually like her subjects (sadly, rare these days) and conveys their inner lives with sophistication and compassion. She admits that character and emotion interest her more than mere likeness, and says she can spend days “weedling” with a face, just to get the right expression. But this uniqueness is both her strength and her weakness. “If you do not fit into existing categories, people don't know where to put you, or your work. You lose access to established networks and end up having to make your own, which takes a lot longer.”
One of the most captivating aspects of Marshall’s art is the penetrating gaze of her subjects. It can be impish, serene, challenging, flirtatious, eager, comforting, or angry, but it is usually direct and engaging. Marshall’s figures, while idealized, retain a determined and stubborn individuality, and there is an instinctive humanitarianism to all of her work. It’s rare to see interesting figurative work that is neither cruel nor cold, nor, on the other end of the spectrum, overly sentimental, but Marshall deftly walks the line between them all. Maybe some of her figures would come across as too sweet if it weren’t for their sad and pensive stare, or the complicated pattern work which leaves them looking fragile and fractured, emotionally bursting at the seams. There is an underlying melancholy to much of it; the subjects’ gazes are worldly and wise, and even the young are old. Their expressions hint at extraordinary prescience and the knowledge that comes with experience, and yet they still present a proud face to the world. It may be this dignity that is most attractive in the work: bravery, stubbornness, and beauty in the face of the more brutal little realities of life.